Pet Peeves
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly has a nasty little dog that doesn't like Sherlock. Who comes out on top? Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes was about two minutes into contemplating the regrets of his, it would surely soon turn out to be, too short life. He really had hoped that John and Mary would take his request to name their soon to be born daughter Sherlock, but even he had to admit it had been a stretch suggesting that it was really a girl's name. He would have liked to have left a little reminder of his existence behind. Perhaps, after his demise in some unnamed eastern European country, John would regret his decision about the name, and strive to produce a male child. Sherlock would bet on John succeeding in this endeavor long before his brother Mycroft, so he would have to settle for Sherlock Watson, not Sherlock Holmes II. Ah, well, such is life. Or death. Had he been given just a little more time, Sherlock had planned on working on producing his own version of a mini me. He turned his gaze to the window of the small jet, lost in these thoughts, and regrets, just as he was informed of a call from his brother. The brief exile had been the longest four minutes of his life!

It seemed that it was possible that Moriarty had faked his death just as Sherlock had. His grinning face was now being telecast throughout the UK. Sherlock did not believe it was possible, as he had seen the arch criminal's brains spread in a bloody puddle on the roof of St. Bart's Hospital on the day three years ago when he, himself, had supposedly leapt to his death. But Dr. Molly Hooper, who he knew would do anything for him, had, indeed done everything for him that day, and for the two years following. She had colluded with him and Mycroft in faking his death, and keeping his secret for the next two years as he dismantled the spiders web of criminal activities. He had since then come to realize how much she mattered to him, but being Sherlock Holmes, he was not about to admit this to anybody, not even Molly, at least not right away. He had other things to take care of. He had not planned on one of these things being the murder of a malignant blackmailer, and his own resultant exile and expected death. But now he was back, and all he had to do was keep Molly alive in order to accomplish his life goals. That, and possibly convince her to speak to him again!

John and Mary had left the private airport in Mycroft's car just before the sinister broadcast started, and were now being transported to 221 B Baker Street for a sort of summit conference for all concerned parties. Mrs. Hudson was, of course, already there, and DI Greg Lestrade was on his way. Sherlock was in his own car, provided by Mycroft, headed toward Molly Hooper's flat as quickly as the laws of physics, and traffic, would allow. He was pounding on the door yelling loudly, when Molly opened it to scream just as loudly at him, "You told me was dead!"

"Just pack a bag quickly. We're going to Baker Street immediately."

Sherlock looked about the room, noticing changes since the last time he had visited. A new couch, additional DVD's and CD's, some other small additions. But surely the most obvious addition was currently yipping annoyingly at his heels.

"Good lord, Dr. Hooper, what is that? Some sort of experiment?" Sherlock was glaring at a tiny ball of black curly fur, with angry eyes and tiny sharp teeth.

Molly came out of her bedroom, carrying a small case, and bent to lift the small dog into her arms. "It's a dog, Sherlock. I told you I had a dog."

"You told me you and meat dagger had a dog! I just assumed that he would follow his master out of your life."

"I got rid of Tom, Sherlock. Not the dog!"

"Where's Toby? Surely your cat can't appreciate all this, this yipping ball of furry malevolence!"

"Toby is currently residing in a small urn on the bookcase, you git. So far he has expressed no opinion one way or the other."

Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest, if only, consulting detective, was nothing if not observant, and now he was observing some distress in his pathologist. "Not good," the John Watson voice in his head told him. He had grown accustomed to the cat in the two weeks he had spent in this flat waiting for Mycroft to make plans for his departure under a new identity. He had even grown to like the aloof, ill-tempered animal, perhaps because he reminded him so much as himself. Yet his Molly had suffered through the beloved cat's death, not even mentioning his demise. And just when was she supposed to do that, you prat? he thought. When you were keeping your distance after you returned, leaving her to her brain dead fiance? How about when you reverted to drugs for a case? Or during the time when she believed you had that phoney girlfriend of yours?

"Well, are we leaving anytime soon?" Molly's almost harsh voice drew him away from his thoughts.

"You intend on bringing the canine with you?"

"Of course!"

"Is he at least housebroken?"

"Yes, he is. And I say that regretfully, since it is your flat to which we are going!"

Sherlock winced at her words. He definitely had some fences to mend when it came to his pathologist. Evidently this would now involve being nice to a small growling ball of jealous anger.

"Nice doggy," he said, reaching to pet the small animal's head, which was somewhat hard to locate, as it was covered with the same black, curly hair as the rest of its body. He barely managed to move his fingers away before tiny sharp teeth made contact.

"Good dog!" Molly said, smiling and scratching the pup behind his ears. "You certainly are an excellent judge of character."

Sherlock took the bag from Molly, leading her down the stairs and out to the waiting vehicle. The trip to Baker Street was spent in silence, or at least without words. Every time the detective would relax a bit in his seat, the tiny dog let out a low growl. After this had happened a half dozen times, Sherlock growled back. The small creature let out a pathetic whine, and looked dejectedly at his mistress, who promptly swatted Sherlock on his wrist. He could imagine her saying, "Bad Sherlock!", as the sinister pooch raised his eyes to fix him with a smug look.

When they arrived at the Baker Street flat, all other parties were already in attendance. Mary Watson, heavily pregnant, and therefore seemingly in a nurturing mode, was the first to swoon over the small pet in Molly's arms. She was soon joined by Mrs. Hudson, who cooed about how utterly adorable the small dog was. John and Greg were soon petting the animal, who sucked up all the affection with the greatest aplomb. He evidently liked being the center of attention. Sherlock, seeing his chance, approached the mutt while it seemed to be in this exceptionally good mood, reached to scratch behind it's ears, and was met with a small warning growl.

John and Greg laughed uproariously, while Mary and Mrs. Hudson tsked tsked at him.

"What have you done to the poor little thing, Sherlock?" his landlady asked accusingly.

"Not a bloody thing!"

"That's amazing, you know. People have to know you for at least a little time before they start to actually growl at you!" Lestrade snickered.

"Really, Graham, perhaps the dog is mentally unbalanced. Perhaps it has received a blow to the head which has caused this aberrant behavior!"

"Nothing has hit it on the head, Sherlock!" Molly said, somewhat indignantly.

"Perhaps something should!" Sherlock sneered, as three people growled at him.

"I warned you about the growling, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered, as he approached the animal in Molly's arms, and asked, 'What's his name, Molly?"

Molly's body was trying to go pale and flush with embarrassment at the same time. Interesting look, thought Sherlock, as Molly muttered something in a voice so low as to be barely heard.

"What's that, Molls?"

"Sherlock. His name is Sherlock," Molly said, perhaps too loudly this time.

There was a brief silence in the room, broken by John's laughter. "I can certainly see the resemblance," he said, "what with all those dark curls! What I can't believe is that Tom let you give him that name."

"I told him I wanted to name him after my poor departed friend! It turned out to be an excellent choice, after all."

"How's that, Molly?" Mary now asked.

"Well, he grew up to be nasty, selfish, and rather anti-social. He is, quite literally, a real son of a bitch, just like his namesake!"

The room erupted into laughter at Sherlock's expense. It was just the tension breaker needed before they all settled down to discuss their current circumstances, and wait for the result of Mycroft's investigation into Moriarty's return. But since they couldn't really make any important decisions about their next move until Mycroft's report, the afternoon degenerated into a social occasion, featuring mountains of takeaway food and liberal amounts of alcohol. There were guards around the building, placed there by the elder Holmes, so everyone was safe, at least for the moment. Sherlock, John, and Mary fell into easy conversation, while DI Lestrade paced the room, eager to join his latest paramour, or perhaps his ex-wife. Sherlock had abandoned all interest in the policeman's love life when he decided to concentrate on his own, Or lack thereof.

It was difficult drawing Molly into the conversation. She sat on the couch between Mary and Mrs. H, running her fingers through the dog's silky curls. Sherlock could only think that it should be his curls receiving her attention, but realized he had never done anything to deserve it.

By early evening the elderly landlady was beginning to feel a bit drowsy, perhaps due to a combination of lager and herbal soothers. Sherlock accompanied her downstairs, and tucked her into bed. John and Mary followed a couple of hours later, following a pizza delivery due to Mary's cravings. They had decided to spend the night upstairs in John's old bedroom, which, Molly, realized, probably meant that she would be sleeping on the couch. Lestrade was trying to engage the slightly sad looking woman in conversation, only to be interrupted by Sherlock's mobile signalling an incoming text from Mycroft Holmes to his younger brother.

MORIARTY BROADCAST A HOAX. HACKER TRACED AND DEALT WITH ACCORDINGLY. WELCOME HOME, SHERLOCK. - MYCROFT

Sherlock showed the message to Greg, who inquired, "What's he mean, 'welcome home'?"

"Not to worry. Private joke."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it! I'll be on my way, then"

"Where to? Ex-wife or new girlfriend?"

"Why don't you deduce me, mate? You tell me!"

"I've given up deducing anyone's sex life, Gavin. At least until I have one of my own. It seems that my lack of experience in the area of relationships has caused me to make quite a few mistakes."

"I'm surprised at that."

"What, that I make mistakes?"

"'Course not, you prat. Just that you're willing to admit it!" Greg now glanced over at Molly, snoring ever so slightly on the couch, the hound from hell snuggled where he knew Sherlock would rather be. He was a detective, after all, and he could make deductions of his own. "Just don't make another one!"

Sherlock sat back in his chair, still gazing at his Molly, and started moving his thumbs over the keyboard of his mobile.

AND WHO EXACTLY IS THE MYSTERIOUS HACKER, BROTHER MINE. DO I KNOW HIM - SHERLOCK

YOU KNOW HIM LIKE A BROTHER - MYCROFT

THANK YOU - SHERLOCK

YOU CAN THANK ME BY NOT WASTING THIS SECOND CHANCE. AS I AM UNLIKELY TO REPRODUCE, I EXPECT YOU TO NAME YOUR SECOND CHILD MYCROFT, AS I ASSUME THAT WITH YOUR EGO THE FIRST WILL BE NAMED AFTER YOU - MYCROFT

DEAL, BROTHER. BUT THE CHILD MAY NEED EXTENSIVE THERAPY IF IT TURNS OUT TO BE A GIRL - SHERLOCK

NOT TO WORRY. MUMMY HAS THERAPISTS ON SPEED DIAL - MYCROFT

Sherlock put down his mobile and approached the couch cautiously. Molly's malevolent minion awoke with a growl, signalling his mistress. He was still growling as Sherlock sat on the floor with his back leaning on the couch.

"You know, Molly, if you really just wanted to run your fingers through some dark curls, you could have just asked. You didn't have to go find yourself such an inferior substitute." As if to prove that he could, indeed understand English, the dog snarled as if on cue.

Molly scowled at the back of his head. "Are you talking about the dog, or Tom, Sherlock?"

"Both, actually."

"You really are an arrogant prat, Sherlock Holmes." Molly gently moved the small animal to the floor. Sherlock Jr. sniffed about the room until he found one of Sherlock Sr.'s discarded soiled shirts. The purple one, to be precise. Lifting his leg, he relieved himself all over the lovely fabric.

"You know, I may be wrong. I have found myself wrong on more than one occasion recently. But I don't believe that dog likes me!"

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock. I like you," Molly said resignedly.

"Enough to start having children? I find that I am in need of at least two, as I have turned over naming rights on the second to my brother."

"Then we will have to have at least three, Sherlock. I would like to name at least one of my own kids."

"I don't know if I can trust you, Molly. After all, you named a dog Sherlock. We shall have to change that, by the way."

"You can't just change his name, you git. He's been trained using that name! He answers to that name! He has his own pillow on my bed embroidered with that name!"

"That will never do, Molly Hooper. There will only be one Sherlock in our bed from now on, and that will be me!"

Molly moved quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a long and passionate kiss. Sherlock looked smilingly into her brown eyes, and, as he pulled her gently from the couch toward the bedroom, "However, if you're truly adamant about not changing his name, I suppose I shall have to change mine. How do you feel about 'Rover', or 'Fido'?"

Sherlock had barely lowered his Molly to the bed when he heard the persistent scratching at the door. Molly reluctantly disentangled herself from his arms, fished into her overnight bag, and pulled out a doggie toy and a couple of dog treats. After making her way to the door, she opened it just enough to toss the items to the anxious animal on the other side, telling him in a stern voice full of authority, "Stay!" The dog promptly lie down, toy under his paw and treat in his mouth.

"Well," Sherlock began as she returned to the bed, "Have we made a decision on this whole name change thing. Will our marriage license be made out in the names of Molly Hooper and Rover Holmes?"

"No, love, you can keep Sherlock. I really wouldn't want our first child to be named Rover, Jr. We'll just have to rename the dog. Any suggestions?"

"How about Tom? He never liked me anyway. And I won't feel so bad when I have to hit the nasty little furball with a rolled up newspaper. Also, we should consider having him neutered, don't you think. I'm surprised you haven't had it done already. He is going on two years old."

"Tom wanted to…"

"I'll just bet he did…" Sherlock was trying desperately to not personalize the experience of Tom wanting to have something named "Sherlock" castrated. He was failing miserably, and felt himself almost growling, like a dog. "I would have no problem with having 'Tom' neutered."

"You are talking about the dog, aren't you, Sherlock?"

"Maybe, my love!"

"


End file.
